


Charity Comes from Strange Places

by wordsbymeganmichael



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Brothels, F/M, Harlots AU, Period Piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: Captain Hook and his men have been regulars at the same inn and brothel for years now, though the Captain has spent his time there at a table in the corner, filling his books and drinking his rum, though he finds himself drawn to the gorgeous blonde who seems to be in charge. When there is a threat to her safety, and the safety of her girls, Killian acts -- but can he reveal pieces of his soul to her that he has not shown anyone?





	Charity Comes from Strange Places

**Author's Note:**

> ROUGHLY based on the first three minutes of the Hulu show "Harlots," but barely anything beyond that. Sometimes I just need a good period piece, yanno? Unbetaed, because I wanted to get this up before I went to work

Over his years as a sailor — a slave, an officer, a pirate — Captain Killian Jones has been to a lot of inns, a lot of whorehouses, and even a saloon or two. He’s seen callgirls of all shapes and sizes, has heard all sorts of lines, and has been asked by every woman who approached his table since he was a young officer, though he has accepted none of them. He was raised as a man of honor, a man that has always longed to love a woman the way he saw his brother love his wife for the short time he was allowed, the way his father should have loved his mother. He does not shame his men for choosing to take part, and has never shamed a woman before in his life. 

So he sits in the corner, adding to his captain’s log or working his way through one of his newest stories with a bottle of rum, waiting for the sun to come up, hiding from the nightmares that squeeze their way up from between the boards of his ship, the ghosts of the men who have lost their lives on that very deck, who have lost their lives because of him. 

At least here, the ghosts stay away. 

Here, he can watch over his men, make sure they keep out of trouble. Here, he can assure the tall brunette that seems to run the inn that his men will pay their debts, will pay for the windows and the benches they break after drinking too much and the bedframes that they break with more active activities. 

Here, from his table in the corner, over the pages of the book perched on his lap, he can look out over the few who are still conscious in the inn, watch for suspicious activities. 

Here, he can see her, that blonde beauty that sets herself up on the corner of the bar every night, a pile of papers spread out before her and the quill in her hand never still, always moving against the pages, against the large book that he assumes is full of the numbers for the inn or the callhouse — or, in moments when it is not against paper, tapping against her bottom lip as she thinks. 

He has never seen another woman like her, never in all the worlds and all the realms he has passed through. The golden curls that fall in waves down her back remind him of the brightest sunrise, the shining reflection of the morning sun on the stillest seas. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than any woman Killian has ever seen, even if he has only seen her from afar. 

_ Gods,  _ he’s never even spoken to her, but he believes with all of the heart that he has left that if she ever turned her words in his direction, he would be unable to form any of his own. Or, heaven forbid, if she ever laughed — if she ever turned a laugh in his direction, he fears his heart would burst out of his chest and fall onto the floor before him. 

Usually, on the nights they come, the place is emptying, just missing the dinner crowd, but tonight, the inn is buzzing with life, most of the tables and almost the whole bar full. 

In fact, the only space for him is at the bar. 

Next to her. 

_ Next to her _ at the bar. 

Squaring his shoulders, he takes a deep breath, holding the pile of papers he was hoping to work on closer to his chest as he moves through the crowds of people and slides onto the barstool next to her. 

Out of the very corner of her eye, she looks at him for just a moment, and he doesn’t miss the smirk that passes quickly over her face. From this close, he can see that her eyes are as green as the dress she’s wearing tonight, shining more than the soft silk of it in the firelight. 

Belle is the one chosen to work behind the bar, the very girl that Killian’s own quartermaster, Will, has taken a fancy to. The smile she offers him is much softer than the blonde’s smirk. 

“Hello, Captain,” she says, handing him the regular bottle of rum. 

“Miss French,” he returns with a bow of his head. “It certainly is a busy night here, innit?” 

“It’s a special night around here,” Belle says, leaning against the bar in front of him. “Our proprietors have lined up some entertainment for tonight, so everyone is going to have to wait for their girls until after the performance.”

“A performance, eh?” he asks, turning slightly toward the blonde beside him. 

She smirks again, Belle nodding, but none of them can respond before applause starts of the other side of the inn, cheers from the men that fill the room. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, the silence between the girls’ songs staying unbroken, but that does not make him less enthralled by her. He fills out his logs, checks his star charts, listens to the songs, but says nothing. 

She does the same, sipping from a crystal glass full of a dark brown liquid — whiskey? — paging through her books, humming along with the music every once in a while. 

Tapping the end of her quill against her bottom lip. 

That movement alone could be the death of him. 

By her silence, he can tell that she has shut herself away from the world, can tell that she has built walls up around her to keep everyone out, but that does not stop him from wondering. 

Wondering what her story is, how she got to this place. 

Wondering how she found herself in her position when he is sure that she must be younger than he is. 

Wondering what kinds of secrets and surprises he could find behind those green eyes. 

He wonders all of these things, but does nothing about it, leaving without a word at the end of the night. 

Wonders enough to come back the next night and sit beside her at the empty bar, a single seat between them, even when most of the inn is silent. 

Wonders enough to sit next to her, but not to speak to her, even though every muscle in his body is drawn towards her. The seat between them hums with his need to get closer to her, to get to know her,  _ to bloody say something to her _ , but the minutes tick away. 

Until: 

“How was your latest voyage, Captain?” she asks, almost quiet enough that he misses it, and when he turns to her, her eyes are still on the pages in front of her. 

“Pardon?” he asks, not even sure that she has said anything in the first place, but when he turns to face her, she turns right back to him, her eyes bright and searching his for a moment before she repeats herself. 

“How was your latest voyage? They say you went to Arendelle?” 

For the briefest moment, he still does not believe it, does not believe that she is speaking to him. 

And then, her eyebrows rise up her forehead, coaxing him for some sort of answer, and he knows he is not hearing things. 

He clears his throat, straightening his back a bit as the corner of his lips tick up in a momentary smile. “It was unexciting. Rather boring, actually. We, uh, we have an understanding with the Queen there, and sometimes they call us up to take care of… difficult visitors.” 

With this, she breathes out a single laugh, dropping her head for a moment before turning back to him. 

“You really are a pirate then?” she asks, just a drop of uncertainty in her voice. 

“Did you really think otherwise?” 

“It’s just that, you and your men… you’re so… well-mannered. So nice, and generous. Which is the opposite of what everyone tells you about pirates, you know?” 

“What can I say, love?” he asks, leaning towards her, filling some of the space between them. “I run a tight ship, and teach my men nothing but the best manners.” 

This time when she smiles, it’s a brilliant thing, and he really does almost feel his heart fall from his chest at the sight of it. 

Between long periods of silence, she asks a few other questions about his journeys, about places he’s been and  _ what do you eat on a ship when you spend months at a time on the water?  _

Every once in a while, her duty calls, and she leaves him alone at the bar for a while at a time. And while it physically pains him, it is during one of these times that he must leave, doing so without bidding her goodbye. His heart sinks, gathering up his papers without knowing where she is, but it is past time for him to return to the ship. 

When he comes back the next night, he does not leave an extra stool between them, but he still does not engage with her. 

And to his great surprise, either does she. 

He thought the night before that they were doing well, that the comfort he felt between them could not have been just by him. 

But her silence makes him question it all. 

Every once in a while, he allows himself to look over at her, but her eyes are always focused on her books, never once leaving the pages before her. 

He leaves in the same silence that has been around them the whole night. 

The next night is the same. 

The following morning, they leave for a three-day voyage. When they return, he does not even try to sit by her, returning to his spot in the corner. 

Three more days pass like this, with Killian on his own in the corner, though every time he can spare it, he finds his eyes leaving the pages before him and traveling to where she sits in her own corner. 

Either she does not see him, or she does not care. 

Until, at last, she does. 

When he comes in the next night, his spirits sink when he realizes that her usual seat at the bar is unoccupied — but, turning his attention towards his usual dark corner, he is unable to keep the smile from growing across his face when he sees her sitting there.

When she returns it with one of her own, his lungs stop working for a moment. It’s as if he’s forgotten how to breathe, as if he’s never learned how to pull breath into his own lungs. He needs to move, needs to cross the room to where she is waiting for him —  _ to where she is waiting for him —  _ or,  _ heavens _ , he just needs to draw breath. 

The sea has been kind to him in the three decades he has spent on it, and the amount of times he has felt the burn of the water in his throat can be counted on his remaining hand, but it feels eerily similar to what is happening to him now, to the wild heat stretching out from his chest over his body.

And then she does it again, that questioning raise of her brow coaxed by his stillness, and the world is righted again with that movement, his lungs finally working once more and he can fill the rest of the space between them. 

“Good evening, Captain,” she says as he slides onto the bench across the table from her, and he realizes that she has already procured his regular bottle of rum. 

“Hello, love.”

“Emma,” she says quickly, and he snaps his eyes up to meet hers only to find her sucking on her bottom lip, a sight that he wishes would stop awakening other parts of him. “My name is Emma.” 

He turns his head to look around them, make sure that no one is listening to their conversation, before leaning across the table as far as he can, which coaxes her to do the same. “Killian,” he whispers, winking at her. 

“Ahh,” she breathes, a sly smile across her face, and when she sets her hand on his arm, it sends an electric shock through his whole body. “So there is a soft core under that hard pirate exterior.” 

“We’ve all got something to hide,” he says, the words coming from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere that has been locked for years. 

“That we do,” she says softly, the fingers of the hand not resting on his arm rising to the silver chain around her neck, which runs down her chest and into the front of her bodice. He does not mind the way the slim chain pulls his attention to where the white skin of her breasts protrudes from the front of her dress. 

“Can I ask you something, love?” he asks, leaning back on the bench, needing to focus his attention on anything other than her breasts, however lovely they are. 

(Because,  _ Gods _ are they lovely.) 

She nods. “Only if you return me the favor.” 

“Of course, darling.” 

She nods again. 

“How is it that you have found yourself in such an esteemed position at such a young age? How are you the proprietor of this establishment, when you cannot yet have reached thirty?” 

Shaking her head, she runs her teeth along her bottom lip, her eyes set on the table. When she does not move to speak immediately, he does not push her, simply watching her as she seems to attempt to put the words in the right order. 

All at once, she moves to swipe his bottle of rum, meeting his eyes for a moment before she takes a swig of it and sets it back down on the table, leaning away from him at the table. 

“I grew up without a family, by myself, on the streets.” Already, his heart breaks for her. “When I was seventeen, I was attacked by an older boy I met, a rich boy from a rich family that thought he could have anything he wanted, and he wanted me, apparently. Left me broken, hurt, in pieces in the alley behind this very establishment. I passed out outside, and woke up in one of the beds here. The old owner of the callhouse, Ruth, was sitting by my bed, and nursed me back to health, didn’t even tell anyone that I was here. I needed somewhere to stay, and Ruth saw that, so I started helping her with the books and I cleaned up the inn downstairs, which used to be owned by a different woman, Granny, for room and board. When Ruth died, she left the business to her son, David, but he only owns it for the sake of paperwork. Granny died not long after and, because she could not leave the inn to Ruby, her granddaughter, she also left it to David, bringing the businesses together. Ruby runs the inn but is also one of the most popular girls, and I take care of everything else. But I can’t — I don’t sell myself like the other girls, because of — for fear of what happened when I was younger.” 

Killian really wants to comfort her, hold her,  _ kiss her _ , feelings that he has not had for ten years, since he held Milah in his arms as she took her last breath on the deck of his ship. 

And feelings he cannot act on. She just bared her heart to him, much more than he ever expected asking the question that has been sitting at the back of his mind, and told him about the scars of her past. He has to accept that. 

But she reaches across the table and rests her hand on his arm, and there is light again in his life, coming solely from the radiant smile of the beautiful blonde across from him.

_ Emma.  _

They go back to their regular routine: small conversations asked sporadically between periods of silence, though tonight, they are sharing their stories, their scars (literally and metaphorically), and a bottle of rum. 

“I really want to know,” she says after a few hours, and just as many drinks, her words slightly slurred. “How you got the hook.” She reaches out, wrapping her slender fingers around the metal appendage, which sends a jolt of electricity through his body, a warmth that spreads across his bones but settles below his stomach, slowly stirring his cock to life. 

“You’re asking for the deepest secrets here, love,” he says, his voice low, trying to suppress the growl that he desperately wants to release as he focuses his gaze on her fingers, not trusting himself to look at anything else. 

“I already bared mine to you,” she whispers, her free hand finding his atop his stack of papers. “All I’m asking for is a little… reciprocation.” 

He raises his eyes to meet hers and finds the same bits of a smirk that he could swear he heard in her last word — she has to know what she is doing to him, the effect that she has on him, the effect she has had on him since the first time he laid his eyes on her. 

“Well then, a gentleman always reciprocates.” 

Her eyes widen for a moment, but he becomes too distracted by the movement of the tip of her tongue running across her bottom lip to focus on anything else. 

“A gentlemen, eh? Is that what you think you are?” 

“I can assure you, darling,” he says softly, turning his hand in hers so he can tighten his fingers around hers. “I am  _ always  _ a gentleman.” 

She does that damned thing with her tongue again. “Then tell me, Killian,” she whispers, leaning closer to him. “Tell me how you got the hook.” 

So he does. He tells her about Milah, about falling in love with another man’s wife, about her choosing to come with him instead of staying with that monster—

And about Mr. Gold growing angry with him and piercing Milah’s heart with a rigging hook on the deck of his ship, taking his hand in one fell swoop when Killian challenged him, and leaving with both Killian’s hand and heart. 

Killian sips the last of the bottle of rum, willing it to refill itself so he can drown himself in the liquid, in drunkenness, instead of in the pain that he drowns in every time he thinks of his first love. 

“I took the hook and made it my reason for living, since Gold had taken the only other one I ever found: a reminder never to give my heart away, because of the pain it causes.”

Silence falls between them for a moment, and Killian realizes that his thumb is moving slowly across the back of Emma’s hand. 

And then she laughs. 

“We’re a jolly crew, aren’t we? Two lost, broken hearts, learning to love again.” 

Killian stays late into the night, knowing that his next journey will take a few weeks’ time before he can return to her. 

But he spends every lonely, silent night thinking about her anyway. 

When they do finally make port again five weeks later, Graham, a man that left his crew to work as a lawman (an ironic fact that didn’t get past any of them) is waiting on the docks for them. 

“Captain!” he yells, pulling Killian’s attention from the list of tasks scrolling through his mind as they try to dock. 

“Smee, Will, finish here!” Killian orders, and both of the men respond simply by nodding. They’re close enough to the dock that Killian makes it to the worn boards with one quick jump from the deck, aided only by a long rope, and he comes to stand beside his old friend. 

“You’ve arrived just in time, Captain,” Graham says, worry painted across his slowly-wrinkling features. “The churches are planning an attack. In a few nights, they’re going to attack the brothels and callhouses. The girls, they— they’re in danger.” 

Killian almost loses the contents of his stomach on the dock, but swallows the sour bile that makes its way up his throat before he can lose it. 

“Smee!” he yells again, turning his attention back to the ship, where the red-faced man peers down from him from the deck. 

“Belay those orders. We’re not docking for very long. Spend the next few hours gathering supplies for another trip with whatever men you need, take the coin from my supply. We set sail again at sunset.” 

He can tell that Smee is confused, but it is not the man’s place to question his orders, so he simply salutes and begins belaying his own orders to fit the new ones. 

Killian turns back to Graham. “Can you give me a ride there? And get a carriage to meet us in a few hours?” 

When Killian bursts through the doors of the inn, it’s emptier than he has ever seen it, but it is barely midday. Only Emma and a few of the girls sit at one of the tables, eating from a plate of bread and fruit in the middle of them. 

“Emma,” he breathes, crossing the space between them, just as Emma jumps from her own seat. 

“Kil—” she stops herself. “Captain.” 

“I must speak with you immediately. It’s urgent.” 

He knows she must be confused, perhaps even a little scared, but she agrees with him nonetheless. 

“Carry on with your breakfast,” she tells the girls seated around the table, then gestures towards the stairs. “Can we speak in my office?” 

Killian just nods, following her up the steps two at a time, the tails of his leather duster struggling to keep up with him. Her office is the first room at the top of the stairs, barely large enough for the desk and cabinet that it holds, so when he closes the door behind them, he is only inches from her. 

“I see why you work downstairs even if you have an office.” 

She laughs lightly, and his heart pounds at the sound of it. 

But that’s not why they’re here. 

“One of the officers met me at the docks, an old acquaintance of mine. He told me — they’re planning a raid, all the bawdyhouses in the area. Emma, you and your girls are in danger.” 

Her eyes grow wide, stricken with terror. He hates to be the one to bring the news, but being able to offer an immediate solution almost makes up for it. 

He reaches out to take her hand. “Emma, come with me. You and your girls, you can hide on my ship. We’ll take a trip up the coast, to wherever you want to go, wait for the danger to pass.” He releases her hand, only to press the tips of his fingers against her jaw. “Please, Emma,” he whispers. “Let me keep you safe.” 

For a moment, she does not respond, does not move. Killian is pretty sure she does not even  _ breathe _ , just stares at him, into the deepest depths of his soul, at whatever she finds in his eyes. But she must find what she’s looking for, or like what she sees, because she nods. 

“Graham will be here in a few hours with a carriage for you and your girls. Bring what you need, we have more than enough room. We leave at nightfall.” 

In this moment, he wants to kiss her more than ever, but he knows he cannot. He needs her to make the first move, after all they have been through, all she has told him, so all he does is slowly run his thumb across her cheek before opening the door to the office and rushing back to his ship. 

They have to prepare.

_ They should be here already.  _ He’s trying not to pace across the upper deck of the ship, trying not to think the worst, but the sun moves closer to the horizon with each moment and there is still no sign of them. Only his belief in Graham —  _ no,  _ his belief in Emma — keeps the soles of his boots on his deck, when all his brain is telling him to do is run through the town and try to find them. 

But he’s worried. 

Just as he’s about to check his timepiece again, he hears the  _ clop-clop-clop  _ of horses on the wooden planks that lead to the deck, matching the pounding of his heart, and he finally sees the police carriage turn the corner, with Emma sitting beside Graham in the drivers’ box. 

Because of course she is. 

Graham pulls them to a halt at the end of the dock, rightfully not trusting the horses to pull them all the way to the ship. 

“Captain!” Graham yells, jumping from the platform before moving to let the ladies out of the carriage. 

Emma just smiles. 

“Help the ladies with their luggage!” he commands, leading the way down the ramp to take Emma’s bag from her shoulder. “M’lady,” he whispers, squeezing her hand for a brief moment before hoisting the bag up his shoulder. 

But she stops him from walking away, refusing to let go of his hand. “Killian.” 

He turns back to face her, just as she takes half a step towards him, almost colliding with his chest, stopping from doing so with her hand pressed firmly against his sternum. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, a soft smile covering her face for the briefest moment. “We can’t — I can never repay you for this.” 

“Believe me, love, your safety is the only repayment I will ever need.” 

They’re not the words he wants to say, he realizes as they pass through his lips, but he hopes they will do the trick. 

For the briefest of moments, he can swear that she is about to kiss him, her eyes trailing down to his lips, and  _ gods, he has never wanted anything more in his life _ . 

But it doesn’t happen; instead: 

“Alright, Captain!” one of the ladies yells, the tall brunette that Killian knows Graham has a soft spot for — Ruby — as she makes her way around the carriage. Emma jumps away from him, which certainly does not make him feel any better, but even though he’s also heard how much Ruby likes her gossip, it does not calm the pounding of his heart. “Where are we going?” 

He turns down to Emma for a brief moment, and she smiles up at him. “Lead the way, Captain.” 

The girls do not do well on the water. 

They have not even left the harbor before Ruby gets sick over the side for the first time. Aurora has still not awoken after passing out before they even left the dock (though Killian has a feeling that Philip doesn’t mind looking after her), and Belle is pretty emotional about leaving her family behind, even as Will sits beside her on the deck and assures her that they will be back before too long. 

Tink and Emma seem to be the only ones that don’t mind being out on the ocean, with August showing Tink around all of the equipment on the main deck, and Emma standing beside him on the helm as he leads them further from the town. 

They all understand the risk. Emma told him that when she explained everything after he left that morning, they all agreed, even if it means trusting a pirate and his crew — a crew that the girls know, many of them  _ intimately _ , and trust more than many of their other regulars. 

Killian insists Emma take the captain’s cabin, two more girls each in the first mate’s and quartermaster’s cabins, with him and his whole crew in the main cabin. 

Once he has their course set, heading a few knots up the coast to a neighboring town, he turns to face her only to find her watching him. 

“Can you show me my quarters?” she asks, her voice soft, almost shy. 

“Of course. Follow me.” 

He leads her across the deck, itching to reach out and touch her — take her hand, rest his palm of her back, stretch his arm over her shoulders — but he does not, simply gesturing for her to take the lead down the ladder into his cabin. 

She crowds him at the bottom of the ladder, pressing her palms against his chest. 

“Thank you,” she whispers again. “For all this. For everything. I know that having a woman on your ship is bad luck, nonetheless  _ five,  _ but—” 

“I can assure you, love,” he says, allowing his hand to find her waist. “Leaving you behind when I know you’re in danger is worse luck.” 

“But you still did not need to bring us to your ship, did not need to do… all of this.” She gestures around them, though her eyes never leave his. 

“Of course I did.” His words are barely a breath, almost inaudible over the pounding of his heart, which he knows she must feel beneath her fingers. 

“Why?” 

“Don’t you know, Emma?” 

She is silent for a moment, and he fears he may have overstepped — but his fears are extinguished almost immediately when she surges forward and presses her lips against his, her fists tightening around the lapels of his jacket. 

Kissing her is even better than the daydreams he has had about her, better than the few times he awoke with her name on his lips. Like the rest of her, her lips are soft, warm, welcoming, a homecoming like nothing he has ever experienced, and he would be content if the only thing he did for the rest of his life was kiss her. 

But she has other ideas, that he certainly is not opposed to, as she pushes the duster off his shoulders and onto the floor. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles, her lips still pressed against his as her fingers begin to undo the buttons on his vest. 

“Anything for you, my love.” 

As she pulls his shirt over his head, he realizes that he is going to need her help to do the same to her as she is to him, and he wishes the thought of it did not embarrass him so much. This perfect, wonderful woman is not here for  _ Captain Hook _ , has not fallen for  _ Captain Hook _ — she is here for  _ him _ , for Killian. He does not have to pretend to be the hardened man that his persona calls for him to be. 

“Emma,” he whispers, his lips trailing down her neck. “I can’t — I’m going to need your help.” 

But she pulls away, her hands slowly trailing down his back — his  _ back _ , that no one has touched for almost ten years, and that no one has seen for almost twice that. 

“Tell me how to get it off, I’ll help.” Her words are more sincere than he was expecting, and confuse him for a moment before he realizes that she is not talking about her shirt and trousers. 

She’s talking about his brace, his hook, his  _ armour _ . He’s never wanted to take it off as much as he does now. 

He takes a deep breath, swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Killian?” 

“I haven’t —” he starts, the words getting trapped in his throat. “It’s been ten years since I—” 

He can tell that she is trying to suppress a smile, but it does not disappear entirely. "Me, too." 

"No, Emma," he says, lifting her chin with his index finger so she is looking at him. "There are only two people who have ever — who have seen my back, and it's gotten terribly worse since the first one has laid her eyes on it." 

Her eyes widen as she comes to understand his words. 

"The only person who has seen it without the brace — who has seen my arm without the brace, as well — is the ship's doctor." 

"I understand if you don't want me to, if you —" 

"You have to start at the shoulders," he says quickly, stopping any kind of uncertainty she was about to unleash. "Work your way across the chest and down to the arm." 

The smile she turns up at him, her fingers soft against all of the scars he is revealing to her, is warm, understanding — and thankful. "Okay," she says, nodding, and unfastens the clasp on his right shoulder, then his left, pulling the tight leather away from his skin. 

For the first time in years — possibly  _ ever _ — he feels free of his shackles, and when she presses a soft kiss against the scars on his shoulder, he knows that he has never loved another as he loves Emma, feeling more free with every inch of skin that she bares and caresses, all the way down to the hardened scars at the end of his blunted arm. 

"Thank you," he whispers, her fingers wrapped around the very part of him that he has never shown another person — hell, around his very soul — as he kisses her again. 

After a moment, he remembers what he was trying to tell her in the first place, and can't stop the small laugh that rises up his body. 

"That wasn't what I needed help with, no matter how thankful I am for it," he mumbles, pressing his lips against her neck, kissing her softly all the way down to her chest. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Your clothing needs to come off somehow, as well, and I — well, I'm sure you're aware that I only have one hand." 

She pulls his lips away from her chest, forcing him to look at her before she presses her own lips against his stubble-covered cheek, her breath hot in his ear. "That would be why I opted for no corset." 

"You're a bloody marvel," he growls, pulling the front of her shirt from where it is tucked into her trousers and running his fingers across the simple bodice she wears beneath it. 

"Only for you." 

At this, he pulls back, his fingers tightening around her hip as he looks down into her eyes. 

"I need you to know, Emma, that we will do as much or as little as you desire. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable, and at any moment, you can tell me to stop and I will do just that." 

Her eyes search his for a moment, but he knows that she will find nothing but sincerity. And she smiles. "The soft core under the hard pirate exterior," she says, one of her hands over his heart while the other runs through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

"Only for you, my darling." 

There are other words he wants to say, other feelings he wishes to voice — pieces of his soul that she has not unburied yet — but he does not say them. Not yet. Instead, he chooses to show her, to worship her as a lover, in a way that only someone who really knows you is capable. He spends the rest of the night showing her, time and again, that he would never hurt her, that he cares for her more than he has ever cared for anyone.

Because here, in her arms, he is free to be Killian Jones, the man with as many scars on his past as he does on his body, if not more. Here, he is himself, more than he has ever been, able and willing ( _ oh, so willing _ ) to show her what it means to be loved. 


End file.
